Archives

I re-read old posts on here from time to time.

Lately more and more.

What a lucky fucking girl I was.

Sure every relationship I tried went down in flames, but I had extended moments of peace.

Now, I wake up in the morning, assess hangover level and attempt to go about a day in my random little life, it’s usually right about when I hit the button on the coffee maker that it hits me.

Donald fucking Trump is the president of the United States of America.

Happens all damned day until my head hits the pillow.

I post to my Facebook page, some political memes, stuff about love and strength and I have started adding the occasional panda video, just to give us all a break. They have been met with rousing choruses of ‘thank you, I needed that’.

Oh I know honey, I need it too.

But 20 minutes later, I’ll be washing the dishes or folding my clothes and here come the dread again…

Donald fucking Trump is the president of the United States of America.

I feel like I wandered into the Twilight Zone. This can’t be real.

Myself, and millions of other people are reeling in shock and awe, we can’t get past the first 4 stages of grief over one thing he does before he does one more thing and we are back at square one.

Angry, depressed, bargaining and so much denial.

But actually

Donald fucking Trump is the president of the United States of America.

The girl I was before had her ups and downs sure. But I remember I spent days upon days down at the beach last year without a care in the world, not a one.

I miss that peace.

Brother Matt says

The world isn’t going crazy…
The world has always been crazy, but now everyone can see it.

I am inclined to agree.

Yesterday Arnold Schwarzenegger asked Trump to switch jobs with him so “… people can finally sleep comfortably again.”

Nailed it.

Seriously

How do you sleep in a burning bed? In a bed of lies? In a bed of vipers?

This is a free fall into madness. There are no checks and balances because he just fires people and tweets nonsense.

Somebody has to do something. But who takes on the United States of America?

This has to be an inside job.

America is falling into a dictatorship because Donald fucking Trump is the president of the United States of America.

There are unconfirmed reports of migrant workers being rounded up in California.

It begins.

He has named progressive states “Sanctuary States” like that is a bad thing.

I can see the dystopia unfolding very quickly. Flint won’t be the only place without clean water, people are going to start getting really sick. Mexican border closing means 67% less fresh fruits and vegetables coming into the country, people will get hungry. I am afraid he is going to orchestrate a terrorist attack on a sanctuary city to push his agenda and punish them, a twofer if you will. Then martial law.

Bill Maher called it before Election Day.

He wasn’t wrong.

Trump has divided and conquered already. It wasn’t that hard. People are living in the dark ages and in fear of an imaginary enemy. Racism was already rampant, he just gave them a voice. I delete and ban 50-100 ignorant, evil comments a day on my page now.

Racism is a disease, a mental illness and it has to be brought kicking and screaming into the light.

It is quite literally bred in the bones of these people.

We can’t change them, but we can shame them. I will no longer passively allow the idea that one human being has more worth or rights to a comfortable life than anyone else based on any criteria whatsoever. There is no criteria, human is human, the end.

The perfect Skittles analogy.

Yes, I will eat the Skittles. I have raised my son to eat the Skittles.

There are others like us, I can see them. Mr. Roger’s mom always said when things get scary look for the people helping. I see them. Standing at Standing Rock, protesting, writing articles, refusing to deliver fake news, sifting through the ashes.

I hope at the end of this, when history remembers us, they call us the Skittle Eaters and they tell tales about how we brought down an evil Cheeto.

A friend of mine messaged the other day and said “I know you are stressed out right now but here is some good news Stephen Colbert is coming back this week.”

And lo, there was some light in the darkness.

My first thought was that Jon Stewart looked like he had aged a decade since November.

But there was this glint in his eye, a fire. And it warmed me.

He said very plainly that Donald fucking Trump is the president of the United States of America.

And it’s exhausting.

Amen

I can see why people gravitate to churches run by powerful well-spoken men looking for comfort and purpose.
I worship at the church of Jon Stewart, Trevor Noah, Bill Maher, John Oliver and Stephen Colbert. These are my saints and apostles.

I found a tiny glimmer of hope here, in this battle cry…

“We have never faced this before.
Purposeful, vindictive chaos.
But perhaps therein lies the saving grace of Donald J. Trump’s presidency.
No one action will be adequate. All actions will be necessary.
And if we do not allow Donald Trump to exhaust our fight, and somehow come through this presidency calamity-less and constitutionally partially intact, then Donald J. Trump will have demonstrated the greatness of America, just not how (he) thought (he) was gonna.”

http://www.rollingstone.com/tv/news/see-jon-stewart-warn-of-future-trump-executive-orders-w464293

I am ready and willing to fight. Gather the wise women and the witches.

And I don’t know a soul who’s not been battered
I don’t have a friend who feels at ease
I don’t know a dream that’s not been shattered
or driven to its knees
But it’s all right, it’s all right
For we’ve lived so well so long
Still, when I think of the road we’re traveling on
I wonder what’s gone wrong
I can’t help it, I wonder what’s gone wrong

…

We come on the ship they call the Mayflower
We come on the ship that sailed the moon
We come in the age’s most uncertain hour
and sing an American tune
But it’s all right, it’s all right
You can’t be forever blessed
Still, tomorrow’s going to be another working day
And I’m trying to get some rest
That’s all, I’m trying to get some rest

Paul Simon, American Tune

“I put the slippery sheets on the bed, you coming over?”

I wish he had never mentioned that he liked those ones better. I only have 2 sets and I change them every Sunday. Panda says it’s the only consistent thing in my life.

She is not wrong.

Everything else ebbs and flows, changes and rearranges whether I want it to or not.
I wonder if this is why I hate moving so much, I like my things where I like them. Something about my psyche is so tired of everything fluctuating. These people places and things beyond my control, I need sanctuary.

But what happens when you let the boy into your house? Into your bed?

Sanctuary isn’t so safe anymore. Memory foam pillows hold memories.

Suddenly there are holes in the landscape that I am forced to navigate around. Sometimes I forget and fall in.
Sometimes the trigger is something as redundant as a song, a taste or the feeling of high thread count Egyptian cotton sheets caressing my tired self after a long day out in the world

I used to love clean sheet day.

I would change them in the morning go have adventures all day and return home to the pleasant surprise. I am a goldfish girl for sure. Short attention span.

Now it stings a little even though the sheets are soft and my bed is warm.

I didn’t make my bed before I went away. When I came home it was how we left it and he crawled back in like nothing had changed.

But it had.

The psychic said in no uncertain terms he was lying to me. She described him perfectly. Her words tasted like truth in my mouth as I mulled it over. But it wasn’t bitter. So it didn’t matter. I liked his mouth too much to care, lies or no.

I missed my bed while I was away.

I missed him while I was away.

I miss him now that he has gone the way o the others, which is away.

This has been on A-rotation since I got home…

Touch down on the red eye
I got red eyes too
Headache from the red wine
No sleep when I think about you
When I think about you

If I stop for a minute
If I sink back in it
It’ll hurt like hell
If I slip for a minute
If I stop forgetting
It’ll hurt like hell

Yeah, you hurt like hell

First bite in a long time
Reading last week’s news
Hit snooze for the third time
No sleep when I sleep without you
When I sleep without you

(Hurt Like Hell ~ Heydaze)

I have had a hard time sleeping, bed feels cold and empty when it’s just me.

I have a harder time not missing him on Sundays.
It was my only guaranteed day off and he’d invariably come over.
Get the freshly washed sheets dirty.
But before that we would braid our limbs on the couch, make pillow forts, wrap ourselves in blankets and each other, and talk over movies in hushed whispers. Kiss each other for no reason other than we could and we wanted to.
I spent last Sunday wrapped in a blanket on the couch and my skin remembered his.
It hasn’t been long enough for my cells to regenerate.
My body quite literally ached with the want for him to be touching me.
And I was alone in the house. No fortress of blankets and pillows and boy arms holding me together, keeping me safe.

I got through it.

This too shall pass.

I added a bag of Doritos to the nostalgic war on my senses. He was always getting hungry for junk food in the middle of the night. I kept chocolate and chips in the house for him. Bought juice for the first time in a long time so he had something to drink in the morning.

I miss him stealing my sleep, stealing kisses, stealing the blankets.

My skin loved him, I had that plasma ball feeling again. Purple tendrils of energy and light reaching out from my core dancing along the synapses and nerve ending following the paths made by his fingertips.

Hadn’t felt that in a good long while.

Met both those fire-fingered boys in the same place, almost on the same day, a year apart.

And they are both gone.

I am a year older and wiser. I only cried the once this time.
Last time I had never ending tsunamis raging and storming in my tear ducts.
I cried biblical proportions 40 days and 40 nights.

I couldn’t get out of bed.

This time I just changed my sheets and moved on with my life.

Except Sunday. And the time I pulled those sheets out of the dryer, because I knew they would never smell like him again and it kinda hurt like hell.

If it gets bad I will burn them and buy new ones. But I don’t think it will come to that.

If there were two of them, that means there are more and we will find each other in the dark.

Not no fucks.

I rarely give fucks anymore. The world is a mess and I am worried but it is way bigger than me or that boy that never called me back or the never ending saga of the dramarama survivor game played out nightly at the strip club I work at.

If Bill Murray taught me anything it is that you will be stuck in an infinite loop of the same old same old until you figure out how to get it right.

So, on this note, on this day before Groundhog Day I have a tiny announcement to make.

I think it is time to be celibate. No boys, no dates, no sex.

I picked the shortest month on purpose, I am not good at this. I love boys. Muscly yummy sexy sweaty boys with sex on top. And I love sex, like a lot a lot.

Spent yesterday working on the book and jerked off twice.

I haven’t been writing any blog posts at all and I know this one is going to suck all the balls I won’t be sucking but it really feels good to just ramble on about nothing.

I think that is the key, the nothing.

I haven’t been writing because nothing has happened to shake up my strange little life. No great personal crisis has arisen that needed working out here no grand epiphanies or new adventures.

My word count goal for today was 2000, I am not even close, because I came over here to blather on instead.

I needed it, I missed you guys.

I got a lot of other things accomplished in absentia.

Being on lockdown is not the worst thing ever, feels like rest.

I came back from away with a renewed sense of purpose and that quickly fell apart.

I was going to slough off old habits and build new. But it was grey for all but 14 hours in January and I got tired and mired in the muck of life.

I am still smoking…speaking of

Okay back now.

I am still drinking.

Missed the gym today due to a righteous hangover.

Blah blah blah.

But rent got paid, laundry got done, I did actually make it to the gym. More blah blah blah.

I have been singing the same song for weeks now. And I am not alone.

I noticed a trend on my Facebook feed yesterday. My sisters in sorrow were remarking that they were feeling a little better. We follow similar patterns of ups and downs and in this I found a glimmer of hope.

With reason.

I woke up this morning at 9 am, which is totally normal. What was not normal is that for a second there I thought I was going to get away with feeling okay after a night of hard drinking. Turns out I was still drunk, but I forced myself outside because…

The sun came out.

It’s still out.

This is exciting.

The birds are singing, people are smiling, and Panda is in an infectiously good mood.

I realized today that it is the eve of Imbolc.

One of my most favorite of days. Loosely translates to the Quickening. The sap starts running in the trees and the ewes start lactating. Feels a lot like hope to me.

It is entirely possible that I picked the worst time to shut down my sex life, what with all the quickening and running and renewed hope, but it doesn’t feel that way.

Feels like a self-imposed month of grey days. Stasis. A real effort at hibernating before I get reborn in spring.

I have to take next week off work for medical reasons and in that week I will try to knock out all of the things I haven’t been able to accomplish since I got back. I am forever doing what Jane says and trying again tomorrow. Now if I could just stop reliving the rest of the song like some Groundhog Day loop and really be done with Sergio instead of telling him to wait right here for me.

I’m gonna kick tomorrow.

The book is going quite nicely. 3407 words done yesterday, still patching and fleshing out old work, changing pronouns and tenses. I also found things I had forgotten I had written and good god damn they are good.

The afterword is done, I just need to get her from point A to point Z with a minor plot twist. Which will be a lot easier without any real life plot twists.

So, without further ado, all fuckboys past, present and future. Don’t bother knocking, I’m home, but you can’t come in. Try again in March.

My girl parts smell ripe right now. Not in a bad way, I just smell like sex.
He would have liked that, or he said he would have. He said a lot of things.

I don’t stink because of anything fun. Just some coconut oil and toys.
Add a low grade depression that had me skip my shower yesterday and a low pressure system that dictated a few layers of clothes.

We haven’t seen the sun in days. Couldn’t tell you how many. 5 at least.

There was a thick blanket of fog that settled in over the weekend, but the winds came yesterday taking away the unseasonable warmth and the low lying clouds. That sense of security that I find in heavy mist went with it.

I do so love the fog. When I lived in the cabin in the woods it was easy to feel like I was the only girl in the world.

I was never the only girl in the world, and I most certainly wasn’t his.

I mentioned last week that someone had come to me seeking answers and comfort, and as the betrayed we started piecing together facts and timelines, words and selfies, patchwork held together with the common thread of lies and more lies.

This has got to be the ugliest quilt ever.

I finally admitted, drunkenly on Saturday night, that I am indeed a little depressed. Had a good whiskey cry on the porch at 3am. Had I been sober it might have been cathartic. I just woke up late on Sunday with my eyes swollen and sore.

It’s just a slight sadness, I have had worse. This is akin to a low grade fever that simply adds a small amount of pain to any movement and sucks ones energy and makes mundane tasks seem like mountains.

My son asked me what I wanted to do yesterday afternoon I replied ‘sleep till spring and win the lottery’.

I am exhausted. No drama, no exaggerations, I just can’t seem to get enough sleep.

I get through the days doing the bare minimum.

I should probably head to a tanning bed, get some artificial sunlight. I remember him saying I couldn’t shower for 24 hours after or the vitamin D wouldn’t sink in. I blindly believed him.

I blindly believed him about everything.

The only glasses I own are rose-coloured it seems and I see the good in everyone, even monsters masquerading as men.

I back slid. I used to go months without thinking about him and now little things are triggers and they are adding low-grade nausea to the low-grade sads.

Masturbating is usually enough to put me in a good mood but yesterday there was no joy in Mudville. All I could think about was all the sex I am not having. All the ones that left me unceremoniously and the granddaddy of them all who turns out to be an overweight, alcoholic narcissistic catfish with a cyber-harem of pretty, intelligent, talented women that he takes turns breaking for his amusement.

It’s one thing to have an inkling, it is another to have concrete proof.

Habibi said, upon hearing I was wandering down this road “this isn’t your fight, stay out of it.”

I didn’t listen. And I am paying the price.

It didn’t feel like a fight. I thought knowing would be better somehow. But when you exhume a body you never really know what you are going to get. This must be what zombies smell like. Like dust and rot and putrescence.

I am trying to finish the book and all I can see is a balcony littered with cigarette butts. All I can hear is ‘if you love me you will show me your pussy.’

That’s a bad romance.

I am trying to pleasure myself and my mind goes back to phone sex we had or pictures I sent to essentially just a dirty old man. And my body just goes ‘ew, nope.’

I am disgusted by how much he gave them and how little he gave me. Not because I want or need material things but because of the loyalty and depravity I showed for literal crumbs, a phone call, a message or being allowed for a few days here and there to be added as a friend on Facebook.

Nothing about me has changed, I am still the same dumb girl I was in high school. Loving someone who wouldn’t love me back or if he did he wasn’t brave enough to show it.

The same stupid girl that stayed with a habitual cheater, with another and another and another.

And so it goes.

This time I threw pearls before a chain smoking, plagiarist, couch potato. And I am scrambling to find the silver lining.

Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe all I can do is throw my head back and laugh. Do that thing that everyone says I have to do before I can be loved and just love myself.

My only love sprung from my only hate.

I don’t hate him. I feel sorry for him actually.

I know what it is like to be so insecure that all I could do was lie and lie and lie some more. So sad about a life gone wrong that I couldn’t get off the couch. Hating myself so much that I spewed hate.

I launched myself back into the grieving process and I am stuck in depression. Soon with come anger.

If love be rough with you, be rough with love.

Or we could just skip that part and go straight to the acceptance.

I can’t change what happened.

I was a fool following a fool.

If he knew me at all he would have realized that my body responds to kindness. I get wet from intellect. At no point did it matter what he looked like, just how he treated me. Which was the ugliest thing of all.

I have to forgive myself for not knowing what I could not possibly have known.

(Italics = Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet)

Once upon a time…

I thought Lover Come Back by City and Color was a good way to start my day.

I’ve had worse ideas. Not by a lot, but definitely worse.

And down the rabbithole I went.

YouTube logic dictated some Lumineers, which was the direct exit to the magical land of Mumford and Sons.

4:40 into Lover’s Eyes, Marcus Mumford does this wail. This is the sound my heart makes. He does it in Little Lion Man too.

Soundtrack to my feelings.

Which is a slight bit better than the theremin noises I been hearing in my head all day. Logic seem to have taken herself a walk. We’re coping, sorta.

My sister met Sarah Harmer in an airport once. When she told me the story she said, ‘I gushed a bit, she writes the background music for my relationships and just makes me feel less alone you know?’

I knew then and I know now.

Oh Marcus…

I think I am going to have to fire you from your position as musical director of my life.

I will wait I will wait for you.

No.

No more.

I don’t wanna.

All I do is wait.
For them to come to their senses. To see me for what I am. To come back. To leave again.
Always waiting for the leftover footwear to succumb to gravity one more time.

I am Cinderella on an infinite loop, but I don’t bail at midnight, they do and I’m left naked and crying with one shoe in a mess of pumpkin guts.

Talking to my Fairy God Father…

Me: I’m grown but I’m dumb. I have a boy addiction.

DJ: That’s fine, just pick em better. You’re feelings are always dialed to 11 which is one of the things I most love about you

Me: I’m taking a break. He’s the last straw. I thought no way this kid can hurt me. He found a way.

I want to spin these straws of mine into gold and I don’t know how.

The rule coming back was NO BOYS.

Blew that the first night.

Truth is I never quit.

Wolfling messaged while I was away. I didn’t expect to ever hear from him ever again truth be told. More truth, I wasn’t overly surprised even though he has been gone a year now. I am never surprised anymore.
(What would really be shocking is if just one guy I liked showed up and stayed, that would be weird.)

And I answered him. Didn’t do anything about it but I texted the fuck back.

So it goes…

Wolves scratching at the door and I let them in. They feast on my heart and I feed it to them over and over.

Then somewhere up in the heaven’s some tricksy god yells “plot twist” and my heart hurts again.

I am the goose who lays the golden eggs and these ignorant fucks gut me and leave me for dead instead of just feeding me, taking care of me and letting me keep giving them the gold.

“He had access to my most bomb pussy my most warm bed my most amazing cooking my most talented mouth and he sold the key for 300 bucks.”

They all keep the keys and bail actually.

And I never lock the door anyways.

Few exceptions. Hit me, stalk me or steal from me…I will channel my inner Scorpio and ignore you so hard you will question your own existence.

Panda and I were discussing the graveyard of fuckboys I have built my house on.

“I don’t know how you do it. You must be exhausted.”

I truly am an exhausted princess in some fucked up fairy tale with no happy ending in sight.

I drink myself to sleep, eat poison apples like I am starving because I am.

And every time I try to take a nap some prince shows up, kisses me, wakes me up, fucks me for a few weeks and never texts back.

This has to be The End

Happily ever after pending.

I am having a little difficulty adjusting to home.

I had these grand plans, was gonna get up early, drink all the water make all the money. Renounce Satan aka boys

Ya, that didn’t last.

I have had 3 glasses of water in 2 days, I got drunk last night and slept till 11am this morning.

That scene from Kill Bill is replaying in my head…

O-Ren Ishii: You didn’t think it was gonna be that easy, did you?
The Bride: You know, for a second there, yeah, I kinda did.
O-Ren Ishii: Silly rabbit.
The Bride: Trix are…
O-Ren Ishii: …for kids.

O-Ren Ishii: Silly Caucasian girl likes to play with Samurai swords.

I did want to play with a sword. Cutting out the bad parts in my life like The Bride mowing down the Crazy 88’s.

She managed. I am still at the wiggle your big toe part of the journey. I am frustrated.

Knowing is half the battle apparently.
But I know a lot of things, some of them not so good and I am definitely at war.

Just with myself.

Panda wrote us a motivational board. First thing I saw when I walked in the door, and I already broke 2 of the resolutions. One within an hour.

I have pontificated at great length about how I coasted for 3 years on one vast leap of self-improvement.

I am bored of me saying it now.

Herein lies the problem.

I know, I know, I fucking know already.

But now what?

Well first things first I had to unpack and clean the house. Walk the dog and get my ass into work. Try not to drink and hustle my ass off.

I just talked to Panda and said “I am not Sephora level of financially comfortable yet. But we can go out for dinner. “ Money shit went sideways and like most people I know I am emulating Drake, or what he claimed to be doing which is ‘starting from the bottom’. Excited about the ‘now we here, now the whole team here’ part.

I just want to get there.

I know the journey is supposed to be a good thing unto itself, but it’s winter and it’s grey outside and I want to fly away.

But first I have to work work work work work.

I promised myself I would start looking after this body of mine and yet I just had a cigarette and have done zero squats.

I have never been a terribly patient person. I have avoided doing things because I want to be good at stuff I have never tried. Makes no sense, but for some weird reason I have a disconnect about the process. I look at girls who kill it on the pole and I want to be that way, but I forget that at some point in their lives they had no idea what it felt like to wrap their fingers around a tube of cold brass.

I didn’t make it to the gym yesterday. Woke up late and crampy, shoulda powered through but I didn’t.

I am postponing the inevitable inevitably.

I have got to stop.

I have never been to a gym before and I am intimidated. I know this. But a nice juicy peach butt is on the other side of my comfort zone.

I know it’s going to hurt but look at how many things I do on the daily that hurt me, mostly the boy thing.

I managed to do a couple things on my list and a few things that weren’t there but required immediate attention. Anyone else add those things to the original list just so they can get crossed off? I totally did that.

To be a little kind to myself, quitting boys is hard, they are my drug of choice and have been for 30 years.

It is shark week and body doesn’t always listen when that happens.

While we were away average bedtime was 11pm and up by 6 or 7, now I am rolling into work at 7pm so things are a little screwy.

I am alternately sipping water and coffee right now and the OPUS is open on my laptop at least.

Baby steps.

Rome wasn’t built in a day. Just because I have a late start doesn’t mean the whole day is lost. And the boys have been downgraded from boo to bootycalls. I am not going for sainthood here.

My friend Jeff has timers set for himself throughout the day. Labeled things like ‘drink water’, ‘eat’, ‘start writing’, ‘stop writing and get ready for work.’

I think it’s time to admit I need this.

I think it’s time to run.

Stay down

Won’t quit

True love

“What are popular knuckle tattoos Alex?”

No I am sorry, the correct answer is “what are that girl’s mantras” (points at me).

I stole the title of this entry from a Ubiquitous Synergy Seeker song. It’s called Hollow Point Sniper Hyperbole.

“Here’s the map to my oubliette”. USS

He knows exactly where I am. He left me here and I didn’t budge.

I had my freak outs and my epiphanies. And then epiphanies about my epiphanies. Clarity came and went like an eye exam. 1 or 2, 3 or 4. We got all the way to 17 and honestly, 1 was the best it ever got, it’s just blurry now, obscure. We dropped back to negative 220 and made it back to one before. We will see.

The things is, he’s a ghost. See-through, transparent, doesn’t really exist. So the seeing thing…hard to explain. I have to believe it to see it and all I have left is a word document folder full of porn and some archived messages I cannot let go of, oh and his words echoing in my ears.

Told you I was mid-purge. Cleaning out old snippets of articles I never finished.

This was written a year ago right around now.

He’d stopped by to say hello again and disappeared as quickly as he came.

Quelle surprise!

Finding out now that my earlier suspicions were true. I was 7 of 9

And he doesn’t exist.

I am out the other side now but I remember the angst of day one like it was yesterday. Day one came and went a few times and I kept letting him back in every time he scratched at the door, muddy boots and gory blood trails to be cleaned up at a later date.

Today I change the locks on a house he has never visited. (Frieda Khalo)

An acquaintance messaged me this morning, asked me to help a girl.

I cannot help but help.

There is no gloating here, no envy, no pride. Just a hand up.
“Welcome to the support group my name is Sarah and you are not alone.”

When the call came early this morning I was afraid of ripping the Band-Aid off the wound. Haven’t checked to see if it ever healed, just been avoiding it completely.

What to my wondering eyes should appear, but just some skin where before there was a gaping, festering wound.

I’ve been avoiding all of it. Promised myself the book would be done over and over but I couldn’t open it. Same fear of the gangrenous open gashes.

I am officially unafraid.

I finally did another thing I was so afraid of doing and opened old messages from him. Found 7000 usable words. My own.

Katherine Porter said “I finished the thing but I think I sprained my soul.” I empathized.

This new light that has been shed now leads me to believe that when I finish the thing I will free my soul.

So, this article gets written and then I write the book until it is done.

I’ve accepted my flaws so they cannot be used against me anymore.

The opposite of love is indifference.

I loved who he presented himself to be, but that man doesn’t exist.

I stayed true to myself and I have found peace.

I forgive myself for not knowing what I had yet to learn.

This is the final nail on the coffin and he will be buried with the rest.

I had a giant horse once. 16 hands high. Basically gargantuan. I fell off him.

He took me next to a manure pile and let me down softly into the shit, so it wasn’t that bad.

How hard we fall can be offset by where we land. A manure pile can feel like a feather bed under the right circumstances.

On that note…

Can I have your attention please?

Excuse me…over here. Just hang on while I climb down off my high horse, down off my soap box, now just a little lower

Lower

…

Lower

…

Even lower

…

There you go.

Down here in the crazy underground garage below rock bottom.

This was low even for me.

I say with great regularity “I’m not that girl anymore”. That’s the New Me talking, with great pride even.

Well, apparently I am not, until I am.

Not enough sugar in the world…

Here goes.

Forgive me father for I cheated, with a 19 year old.

Besides myself and 19, 5 people knew about this. And now all y’all know.

Sometimes I post things here and expect the intended audience of one to read what I wrote and they don’t.

And sometimes the last person I expect to see things stumbles into a mess I made ages ago.

I accept the consequences, I always do whether I want to or not.

Three things cannot be hidden long, the sun, the moon and the truth.

I did do the thing after all.

I have people I confess things to depending on what response I want.

Sunshine was involved. Others too.

I have done some fucked up shit in my day but usually with no witnesses. Not this time.

I then told The Hulk and Biker Body Pillow. Our Sara of Lords and finally Habibi.

Hulk said “Oh really? A 19 y/o who thinks an older tattooed stripper is hot…I could swing a cat and hit 19 more just like him.”

I told Sara I needed church, she knew what I meant.

Once upon a time I met a boy at work.

Gangsta looking little shit. Figured he’d be good for a drink and a fight.

Thought he was 26 or so and a coke dealer

It was seriously dead at work, my choice was made by smell. Everyone else looked stinky, he looked clean. So I sit and we chat a bit. And he is actually nice and smart and funny and not a coke dealer

And

19

I was drunk and gave him my number.

19 messages the next day asking how work is. I say ‘weird, roomie is here and it’s dead’. I tell him to pop by if he wants. So many shenanigans.

I am pulled a typical me (age 16-36) right now. It’s almost comical. Like New Me is watching Old Me and saying ‘so this is what we’re doing now?’ okay baby.’

Like I regressed in my sleep

Maybe I’m pulling back before launch? Still not enough sugar to coat this.

Roommate had the shittiest date ever, rolled into work and it was a shit show. 19 shows up and ends up consoling her. She invited him back home. We talk and spoon and sleep. Wake up looking and feeling like death, he leaves at 7am.

Thought that would be the end of that.

But he kept messaging, like he didn’t see me looking like warmed up shit in the morning or get harassed by my friends or any of that. Instead he asks if we are still on for Thursday. Fuck it, why not. I’ll feed him before I tell him I have a boyfriend. Padding for everyone.

I figured he’d leave, call me a name or two and that would be that.

Instead…

He said “I understand, you gotta do what’s best for you.”

What in the actual fuck?

The terrifying part? As he said it I realized, I have no idea what that is.

I cannot justify what I did and I’m not trying to. But I kinda feel like the gods sent me this random boy to remind me what good attention feels like.

I can see clearly now that I got comfortable in something that on many levels works for me, but something is still missing.

Even though ‘Old Me’ had made a sudden surprise appearance, ‘New Me’ knew better than to make rash decisions, especially when the moon is full, Mercury is heading into retrograde and I am bleeding.

I got confronted with a choice, fight… flight or freeze. I stood still.

I said what I needed to say.

Something had to give, I had to fall, either from grace or the lack thereof. I am grateful for my place to land.

Hot neighbor came by late one night. I had been waiting on the porch to see if I could catch him after work. I saw him disappear into the house across the alley, waited a bit longer and he came out and called up looking for Visine. He had a mote in his eye. Poor darling.

Washed it out with colloidal silver for him.

It’s only fair, he had been tending to my wounds for over a month back then.

I fix everyone and he was the one who fixed me.

Rubbed his back, fed him and proceeded to fuck the shit out of each other.

It’d been a long time coming.

We spoke of DMT, we spoke of lots of things, but that was really important.

I think it’s time for me.

I want to try this thing.

I need a hard reboot.

DMT is the chemical released by our brains when we die.

The ‘spirit molecule’.

Historically, it has been consumed by indigenous Amazonian Indian cultures in the form of ayahuasca for divinatory and healing purposes. (Source Wikipedia)

Some days I cannot wait to die. Not in a bad way, like suicidal. Like when I was a kid and I couldn’t wait to grow up, to get to the next thing.

I have never been overly eager to end my life. Not even in the depths of depression. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to, and did hurt myself so I could feel something. I needed pain on the outside to match my insides.

I have also always carried that child-like wonder and hope. Another reason I never considered shuffling myself loose the mortal coil. That fascination with what comes next.

There is that post that goes around asking what two words we would tell our younger selves if we could. Mine have staunchly been BE BRAVE.

Drugs scare me a bit, especially the ones that make me lose control.

I like my life and being aware of what is happening in it.

I had thought about asking Drogo to be with me when I tried DMT.
You see dear reader once upon a date with Drogo, we drove for a few hours to a spot we like, our little getaway from the city and chaos, and landed in more chaos.

We had a wee adventure wherein I ate half a pot cookie and fell into a 3 hour coma of sorts and astral projected/tripped God’s balls/solved the energy crisis and figured out world peace/visited a parallel John Carter-esque universe. Sufficed to say, he kept me safe and I thought him a good choice for my DMT awakening/death.

I haven’t smoked pot professionally or recreationally in 20 years, gave it up when I got pregnant with my son, tried to pick it back up a few times and never enjoyed it the same. I am wondering if I ever did.

The time before this when I smoked yielded had similar results. Not sure why I ate the damned cookie.

I get in these amnesia states wherein I forget I hate that feeling. The second I start to trip I wanna go home and back to normal. Instead, I have committed myself to a 6 hour flight with turbulence.

The time before? I am afraid I was having a typical stripper moment. Tried a new club with my favorite girl. Got a little too drunk a little too fast in an attempt to calm my nerves and ended up doing a few lines to try and straighten out.

Which made my nerves worse, thereby negating any attempts at anything ever.

Forced us into taking a cab 4 towns away home and of course my jaw was feverishly chewing that gum that didn’t exist. My head hurt my body was done and I just wanted to sleep.

My girl smokes pot. I had her gimme some in an attempt to knock me out. Amnesia rears her forgetful head again, and I forgot that has never worked in the history of ever.

She smokes all day every day and let me tell you something. Marijuana has become this many splendored sophisticated complex thing in the 20 years since I did it.

Fuck me.

So potent.

I experienced lucid dreaming via sleep paralysis and a sketchy drug induced back door to some other realm. Left my body for a while.

I talked to a dear friend who does this often (without chemicals) and he comforted me by saying ‘it doesn’t matter how you get there as long as you get there.’

I still feel like my body was too dirty to properly experience what happened.

But in the land of lucid dreaming and astral projection who is to say what is proper.

DMT seems cleaner somehow.

Drogo, because of the pot cookie experience and the whole thing where he kept me safe and on the mortal coil seemed like a logical choice for a traveling partner. Add to that the quantum physics and philosophical conversations we have…ya him.

But we rarely see each other anymore. And Hot Neighbor has done it before.

But I rarely see him now either.

I used to smoke pot every day and do acid on occasion. 7 times in my teenage years. Every other trip sucked and I chose to stop after a good one.

I just choked on my coffee a bit, I called it a good trip, but I almost died. It was one of those freakishly warm days in February and a bunch of us were down at the beach. The ice was covered in mist, someone left their car running for music and the headlights made these rainbow tunnels, that I thought at the time led to heaven. Theoretically I was right. I may well have gone to the pearly gates shortly after plunging 30 feet to a frozen watery death. Me and Leo coulda chilled in Davey Jones’ locker.

I am always afraid when doing mind altering drugs that I can’t come back to being the same after. Like I will get stuck in my high, and sometimes, like the pot cookie, that was a terrifying thing.

I used to enjoy a good warm cozy opiate check out from time to time because I still felt like myself. My brain was intact and my body just turned to liquid or clouds.

Now it makes me puke.

I have heard DMT is like talking to god. It has been used to cure the most desperate of addicts because they come out on the other side of the trip with a glimpse at some meaning to life, something bigger than us.

I already know it’s there, I just want to see it.